I used to read one level above my grade always. Then when I would get into the grade, the English teacher was always impressed that I’d read everything already and I was always impressed at the extremely stupid questions they would ask about the “author’s intent” in writing this poem.
It’s a fucking poem, Linda. Chill your beans at trying to be an amateur psychologist for a man dead 300 years already.
I can imagine a big wall of these, or the next varietal, illuminating a space and making oxygen as well. Maybe not street lights, but definitely night lighting in buildings.